Necessities
by sanitys-4-chumps
Summary: Troubles in the Baker Street residence, thanks to one Sherlock Holmes...


He wearily opened his tired eyes, only to close them instantly due to the blinding sunlight that shone through the window. Attempting to determine his whereabouts, the man squinted in order to take in his surroundings.

_I know this place ... wait, this is-_

"Good afternoon, John." A tall, slim, decidedly mysterious figure mumbled, as he typed avidly away at his laptop. John, while not entirely _pleased_ with the situation he found himself in, was altogether happy that he had not actually been kidnapped, but rather taken hostage by his so-called friend, "Sherlock. You're-"

"Alive. Well, yes, I do like to keep in the habit of staying alive." He interrupted, his eyes staring continually at the laptop screen. John threw the blanket from his legs as he sat upright from the settee, swaying slightly as he did, "You bloody drugged me, didn't you?" he grasped his head with one hand, pointing his other at the gaunt man sat at the other side of the room, "Really, Sherlock, this isn't how relationships work! You can't just drug your friends for no reason!"

"Actually John, where do you think most of our cases stem from? Monotonous drug-abusers. And they have to get their 'fixes' from one source or another, so why not their friends? Or family, even. It's the most likely scenario."

While Sherlock had been engrossed in his reasoning, John had risen and walked over to the desk, with a less than ecstatic expression plastered on his face. In an instant, the consulting detective found himself with a sore cheek and a bleeding nose. "Well?" John asked expectantly, while he wiped a handkerchief across his right knuckles, cleaning himself of Sherlock's blood, "What exactly was your reason for drugging me, hm? I'm sure it was _exciting_ and _thrilling_ for you, but I do like to know what's going on, Sherlock."

The injured man in question looked away momentarily, as though gathering his senses, "I'm probably more likened to a masochist than a sadist, John. I'd never voluntarily cause harm to you ... quite the opposite, in fact, and hence our current misunderstanding." He held a tissue to his nose, which slurred his words ever so slightly, provoking a somewhat sorrowful glance from John, who had finished tending to his raw fist.

"You see, I couldn't let you get involved. Not for the sake of your life."

John perched on the edge of the wooden chair that stood next to Sherlock's work desk, his frustrated demeanour now turned to worry and concern, "But- what- my _life_?"

"It wasn't working as expected. I didn't know all the variables; all the factors of the case, and I wouldn't let you get into any danger."

"It hasn't stopped you before." John retorted, the tone of his voice fairly lower than it had been previously. He stared solemnly at Sherlock, his eyes glancing at the wound every so often. Sherlock's usual sombre expression now appeared to be even more serious, given the current topic of discussion.

"It's not been this serious before. I knew that if I didn't take action, you'd simply follow me wherever I went, which could have meant getting killed. _Your_ blood would have been on _my_ hands, and I'm not particularly fond of that idea. I needed to go alone."

John sat, looking quite perplexed for a moment, before uttering, "And what makes you think they would only kill me? You know, if that was their intention.."

Sherlock's silence didn't fill him with the greatest confidence.

"I can only suppose that I'm of great importance to them ... Them ... _Them_. I don't even know who _They_ are. All I know is that I've been working on this case for a while now, and you may have become involved, through my damn mistakes." He paused, "There weren't enough variables. I need more time, more work, more _evidence_..." he grasped his head with both hands, allowing a few drops of blood to fall onto a piece of white paper on the desk. John stood once more, to place a hand on his companion's shoulder. "Sherlock, I know you're doing this in my best interest, but.. you need all the help you can get. I'm your friend; I can help you."

Sherlock took a heavy breath, his hands dropping back to their natural position atop the keyboard, and his eyes focussing on the screen, once again, "The drugs were simply to keep you away. There are no side effects; they were solely to keep you asleep, where you were safe. I do, however, appreciate your enthusiasm with such an outlandish and life-threatening case."

"Life-threatening for the both of us, then." Remarked John, who had walked over to his personal medical kit, where he proceeded to gather the correct supplies necessary to treat the injury he had so dearly given his friend. The phone which lay atop piles upon piles of papers and documents vibrated loudly for a second, before Sherlock picked it up, reading the message hurriedly, and with a distinctively smug grin spreading across his face.

"Okay, let me sort your face out, and then we can-" Sherlock grabbed the items from John's hand, throwing them to the rug beside the hearth, and threw a coat into his arms in place of them. Miraculously, he had already donned his own lengthy, jet-black coat, and was more or less out of the apartment door by the time John had taken in what was happening.

"No time for that, Doctor. We must substantiate at once!"


End file.
